


Vicarious Perception

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Dark Humor, Dubious Consent?, Ficlet, I don't even know anymore, M/M, Sticky Sex, handsless-ness, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Following his plummet from the Delphi Medical Outpost, Pharma has time to reflect. Millions of miles away, his hands are engaged — and somehow, much to his irritation, Pharma can feel every single thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vicarious Perception

**Author's Note:**

> I have other stories that I should finish, but this was begging to be written. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

Pharma didn't know when the phantom sensations first began.

With no warning, they had started to register in his processor, hazily, like a shadow or a distant whisper — and for the longest, most frustratingly vague span of time, he thought it was simply his imagination playing games with his damaged mind, making him crave things he no longer had. His life was over, of course, and it was coming to an end in the most pathetic of ways: alone and unable to transform, the cold snow of Messatine pressed against his crumpled, immobile frame, pain dulled with the chill, yet still sloshing through his systems like prickling, fiery sludge.

And so, when Pharma first felt hands — _his_ hands — moving and flexing, fingers bending and crooking, he assumed it was nothing more than a glitch in his processor, an echo of what used to be and nothing more. The sensation faded quickly, leaving Pharma to wonder and loathe and curse everything for going so horribly, terribly wrong.

Time passed — day became night, and once more, the feeling returned: a cup of engex cradled in tired digits, the distinct perception of condensation against a cool, smooth surface. It was disturbing and distressing, and slowly it occured to Pharma that maybe, just _maybe_ , these feelings — these disembodied sensations — were not simply his imagination. His hands had been reattached — to who, he didn't yet know — and somehow, by some nightmarish miracle, he was perceiving what they touched, millions of miles away.

The sky paled to its customary blue as the night fell aside, brightening into dawn. Pharma stared at the cloudless expanse above him, pondering _where_ he had gone wrong — musing on whether or not Ratchet and his party had made it out alive — wondering when his systems would finally just _shut down already_ and leave him to _die_. His thoughts were interrupted by sensation in digits that weren't there: they grasped instruments — medical instruments! — and at that moment, Pharma knew _exactly_ who now possessed his hands, and a hot pulse of anger flooded his broken frame.

Yes, _somehow_ Ratchet had made it out alive, and now — who knows? — he was probably on the other side of the galaxy. It was a wonder that Pharma could _feel_ these things in the first place — and from a rational standpoint, it made absolutely _no_ _sense_ — but he was a medic, forged, and perhaps someway, _somehow,_ his hands, which were all-important to his being and his livelihood and his very _spark_ , could still report back to him.

It was maddening. He could do exactly _nothing_ about it.

Pharma shuttered his optics and tried to ignore the sensation of delicate medical tools in hands that were light years away. The feeling dimmed, and he slipped into recharge, dreams plagued by things that could have been.

* * *

The sky darkened — the temperature dropped — the wind picked up, blowing curls of dry snow over Pharma's useless, splayed legs. Over the course of the day, the snow bank upon which he rested had shifted, burying parts of his frame; he could no longer feel his wings or feet, and perhaps that was a _good_ thing, for a change. It meant less pain, and hopefully it meant he was finally meeting with death.

Sensation from his missing hands had become a near constant, the prickling feel of simply _existing_ ever-present in his neural network. Sometimes, the sensations felt very near, as if Pharma was _there_ and _he_ was the one manipulating his digits; other times, they were dim and indefinite, dreamlike and distant.

Now, though, the perceptions were _vivid_. Pharma stared at the night sky above him, black and dotted with a thousand-million stars. Somewhere out there, Ratchet had his hands, and he was —

_Oh_.

Pharma cursed, yearning to will himself to a quick death. The sensations of working in the medibay and holding a cup of high-grade engex — those feelings had been torturous, but bearable. But now, as Pharma felt his hands — _his own damn hands!_ — sliding down the heated frame of what was, quite unmistakably, another 'bot, he wanted nothing more than to cease his miserable existence.

Digits caressed living metal, gliding over smooth, hot armor, fondling transformation seams and delicate circuitry. Pharma swore aloud, unable to move, unable to stop the sensations from fogging his mind and neural network, unable to do a Primus-damned thing. He felt his stolen hands move down the other's body — a thin waist, the curve of shapely thighs, the unmistakable hot stickiness of lubricant — and Pharma slammed the back of his head against the snow, offlined his optics, and screamed silently at the night sky.

Fingers traced up the inside of a thigh, and a moment later Pharma felt them enveloped in the tight, warm clench of an aroused port. They moved in and out, sliding along slick interior walls, digits curled against sensitive nodes and fluttering calipers.

For the first time, Pharma cursed the sensitivity of his irreplaceable, dexterous medic hands. Somewhere, in some corner of the galaxy, Ratchet was fragging another Autobot, using _his stolen hands_ , and there was Pharma, cold and alone, broken and dying on a bank of snow.

As digits plunged in and out of a nameless, faceless port, Pharma sensed his other hand trace over heated armor — it was pelvic armor, Primus damn it _all_ — pressing against seams, coaxing paneling to slide aside. Soon he felt his fingers wrap around the hard, hot girth of a spike, and Pharma howled in frustration.

Frag getting tangled up with Tarn and the DJD: this was, quite easily, one of the worst things that had ever happened to him. Deserted and bleeding out in the snow was bad enough, but damn it all, _Ratchet_ had _stolen_ his hands and was using them to screw a shipmate and Pharma could _feel_ the feedback from his sensitive, talented digits. Even worse, it felt _good_ — oh, that tight, wet space, and that hot, slick shaft — and Pharma caught himself moaning — actually _moaning_ — and he just wanted to _die_.

Somewhere across the galaxy, his hands moved faster: pumping, scissoring, thrusting, rubbing. Pharma felt his own frame heating, but he _knew_ — and it was just his horrible _luck_ — that any stimuli from this _vicarious perception_ wouldn't be nearly enough to bring him to overload.

And it wasn't. Calipers clamped hard on digits — transfluid trickled down a wrist — and Pharma, with his fans whirring loudly in an otherwise soundless night, found himself overheated, unfulfilled, and brimming with rage. Fingers were withdrawn from the still-shuddering port; they were wet and sticky — and then there was the very unambiguous sensation of those digits being licked clean by a talented, deft glossa.

With his fans running on high and his scalding armor melting the snow around him, Pharma realized that the very last of his energy reserves were quickly dwindling down to nothing. Warnings pinged in his peripheral vision: _critical fuel loss_ — _overheated frame_ — _overtaxed neural network_. Pharma took one last look at that starry, starry sky above him, then offlined his optics, letting himself be swallowed into the darkness.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
